Just Miss Agatha

Chapter 7

Agatha

"Griffith!"

Agatha's back stiffened in an instant, and a flush of heat swept over her as she recognized the voice. It belonged to none other than William, the Duke's younger brother—the very man who had been courting Rosalie with the intention of making her his mistress.

As the Duke turned with Agatha, they both beheld William approaching. To Agatha's dismay, Rosalie clung to his arm.

"Brother, good evening," William said the moment they stopped before them. He gently pushed Rosalie toward his chest. Without a doubt, such an act relayed that she was now his mistress.

With palpable impatience, the Duke inquired, "I thought you would not be here?"

Those words seemed to have a story behind them because William seemed to cower and became small. He stammered, "I want... I want you to meet Rosalie."

The Duke assessed Rosalie with a level of interest akin to watching paint dry and responded with a curt, "Hello, Rosalie."

Rosalie gracefully curtsied and replied, "My greetings to Your Grace."

"Now that I have met her," the Duke said, taking Agatha's hand, "I bid my farewell."

"Rosalie is not just anyone. She is—"

"She is just a friend," the Duke placated him with mounting irritation.

William took on an expression of annoyance, while Agatha felt rejection on behalf of Rosalie. This was clear-cut disapproval of the mistress from the Duke.

Agatha's attention would have been fully absorbed by the feel of the Duke's hand and this conversation quickly spiraling for the worst, if it weren't for Rosalie's intense gaze upon her.

Rosalie, unlike William, seemed to recognize Agatha.

In acknowledgment, Agatha offered a subtle nod to Rosalie, just before the Duke whisked her away deeper into the garden. The lights from the party became distant enough that they had to rely on the soft illumination of the moon overhead.

The Duke's hand was large, with long, elegant fingers that seemed to strike a balance between softness and roughness. Her own hand felt almost diminutive in his grasp, and beads of sweat began to form on her forehead as she became increasingly uncomfortable. Where was he taking her?

"Finally, I have you all to myself," Griffith spoke with much sultriness. His voice was seductive and softer than what she just heard him use on Rosalie and William.

He gently pushed her against the nearby tree trunk and took her neck at the mercy of his lips. A soft brush as if just getting a little taste, then decisive sliding of the tongue leaving a wet trail.

Agatha's head lulled as she was met with unexpected feelings. Nobody had ever kissed her neck, and oh, it felt so good.

He dragged his lips along her neck, his mouth amazingly ravenous, like a ravenous beast ready to devour her flesh. She felt her toes coil as waves of pleasure rolled from her neck to the rest of her body.

"I have been waiting to do this." His breath fanned her neck. She loved how it made her neck tingle. "You smell good too." He softly bit her and rubbed off the pain by massaging his tongue over the spot.

Agatha had not anticipated such a rapid acceleration of events. She had expected a more traditional courtship, one that would gradually lead to an agreement regarding physical intimacy.

However, the Duke was proving to be quite assertive, taking what he desired with an unmistakable urgency. Not that she found it problematic; she hadn't come here seeking love and marriage with the Duke. Her intentions were far more calculated, as she intended to make use of him just as he was making use of her.